


Slow

by MyOwnSuperintendent



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 11, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 01:17:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17819066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyOwnSuperintendent/pseuds/MyOwnSuperintendent
Summary: Mulder and Scully decide to take their reunion slow, but that doesn't last too long.





	Slow

**Author's Note:**

> This is set during Season 11, sometime post-"Plus One."
> 
> I don't own The X-Files or anything related to it. Hope you enjoy!

They’d agreed: they should take things slow.  It had been some time, after all, and they didn’t want to make a mistake, mess things up, wind up back at square one.  Scully couldn’t bear the thought of ruining what they’d so painstakingly rebuilt, and she didn’t think Mulder could either, although they hadn’t discussed that part in so many words.

Of course, the first time, on that motel couch, couldn’t really be called taking things slow, and neither could the second time, on that much more comfortable motel bed.  But after that, lying next to each other, cuddling close, avoiding the thought of packing up and going back home (a fraught construction, nowadays)—that was when they talked, and that was when they agreed.  They were taking this slow.  And they were sticking to that.

And they did, for a little bit.  And then she wound up back at the house, one night after they’d had dinner, and it was a Friday, and they weren’t in the middle of any cases, and she liked how he looked in that shirt, and she liked how he looked out of that shirt, and things got a little bit out of hand, and things got very out of hand.  They forgot that they were taking things slow.  Well, not forgot, exactly.  More like willfully decided to ignore.  “Didn’t we say we were going to take this slow?” Mulder asked at one point, when one hand was on her breast and the other was between her legs and their underwear was in a different part of the house entirely, and she said, “Fuck, Mulder, I don’t care if you don’t,” and the ensuing events showed quite plainly that he did not, in fact, care.  And Friday turned into Saturday, and now it was Sunday, and she’d unearthed the handcuffs, which were where she’d seen them last, in the top left dresser drawer.  She didn’t know whether to be happy or sad about that, so she just kissed him, long and slow, and then he pinched her ass, and she told him he was going to pay for that, and he seemed far too happy about the prospect.

She’d almost forgotten how this felt.  How intense it got.  What it was like to have Mulder there, his hands immobilized, and to tease him until neither of them could take another second.  She’d almost forgotten, but not quite.

It felt so good, so right, so familiar.

It felt so good, and as she lay there next to him, sated, momentarily speechless, she congratulated herself on the fact that they were no longer taking it slow.  Until she looked at his face again.  Until she saw that there were tears in his eyes.

“Mulder!”  She sat up quickly, silently cursing herself; she shouldn’t have pushed it this far, this fast.  She unlocked the cuffs as fast as she could and touched his wrists gently.  “What is it?  Are you okay?  Did I…was it too much?”  He was crying now, and she felt like the worst partner in the world, in every sense of the word.  “It was too much, wasn’t it?  Mulder, I’m so sorry.  I shouldn’t have…not yet.  I’m sorry.”  She stroked his hair, wondering if she should even be doing that now.  Maybe she should go.

“No, Scully,” he said.  “It’s not…you didn’t do anything.  Nothing’s…nothing’s wrong.”  And he was still crying, but now he was smiling through it, and he reached out and grasped her hand.  “It’s…I’ve missed this,” he said.  “I’ve missed you.  And I…there was a time when I didn’t think we’d get to do this again.  And it was…just…intense.”

She let out a breath, pressing her forehead to his.  “It was, wasn’t it?”

“That’s all,” he said.  The words didn’t seem like they could encompass what had just passed, and she held him tight.  “Sorry if I freaked you out.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she said.  He wasn’t crying anymore, now; she wiped a gentle hand along his cheek.  “I’ve missed you too.”  She couldn’t make the words come out loudly, but she knew he heard.

And they held each other then, tangled in the blankets, and they talked, which somehow seemed like taking things farther, faster, than anything else they’d done that weekend.  They wandered downstairs in bathrobes, when it started to get dark, and they heated up what happened to be in the fridge, and they ate it on the couch. 


End file.
